


Untitled

by SoulKisser (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Mycroft is 24, PWP, Pure Smut, Sherlock is 17, Smut, guys stop giving this stupid thing kudos I'm currently rewriting it b/c it's terrible, holmescest, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/SoulKisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has to work for being allowed to stay in Mycroft's house</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> First time finishing a fic and posting it. Unbeta'd, so please tell me if you find any mistakes.

It's a quiet evening, and Mycroft has just settled down in his favourite arm chair when the door bell rings. He sighs and rises to get the door, mentally cancelling his plans of spending a night not looking through government documents.

He opens the door and Sherlock stands in front of him, luggage in both hands.

Mycroft merely lifts an eyebrow in question.

Sherlock huffs and answers, “None of the hotels would let me do my experiments. Not even in their kitchen.”

With a long-suffering sigh Mycroft takes a step back, and says, “Come on in, then.”

Sherlock brushes past him. “That's it? You'll just let me live here with you? I'm impressed.” He doesn't sound impressed at all.

But Mycroft considers this for a moment. “No. There's no 'just' about it. I'll have you working for it.”

Dropping his luggage Sherlock turns around. “And what did you have in mind?”

Mycroft smirks. “I'll think of something.”

Sherlock only narrows his eyes; he knows the conversation is over.

\-----

Later that evening the brothers sit in front of the fire place, Sherlock reading, Mycroft watching him intently. Sherlock knows how to interpret that stare.

“You thought of a … payment, then?” He sounds bored and doesn't even bother looking at Mycroft. Whatever his brother thought of will be dull, he's sure of that.

“Yes, I think so.” And with that Mycroft stands up and walks towards Sherlock, before hauling him to his feet.

“What the hell- Mycroft!”

But Mycroft doesn't listen. He walks Sherlock a few steps back until he's backed against the wall next to the fire place. And he keeps him pinned there; not pinned by touch, but with his gaze. For a moment he just watches him, until he abruptly leans closer.

Sherlock turns his head away before Mycroft can come too close and tenses. But he does nothing to push Mycroft away, or to get away from him, and that fact pleases Mycroft to no end.

He wants to follow through on his plan though, so he gently turns Sherlock's head to face him. “What is it?”

And just like that Sherlock's face turns into an almost ugly sneer, and he says, “We're brothers, in case you haven't noticed. And I'm only sev-” he cuts himself off before saying something he'll regret.

He doesn't need to finish that sentence, though. Mycroft knows what he wanted to say, he saw it in Sherlock's face. _He thinks he's too young. Only seventeen. Oh, that's almost sweet._

And Mycroft smirks. “You honestly think I care about that? Yes, we're brothers, but that doesn't have to mean anything, does it. My innocent little brother...”

When he leans in again he doesn't make a go for Sherlock's mouth but presses a not-all-too-soft kiss to Sherlock's throat instead. And Sherlock doesn't turn away this time. He's still tense, yes, but his breathing is almost imperceptibly heavier than usual, and Mycroft is one to pick up on such details.

He moves away a bit, and Sherlock doesn't look him in the eye.

“What is it now?” He strains to let his voice sound as gentle as possible, and as Sherlock's eyes flicker up to meet his gaze for a moment he knows that he's won.

Sherlock swallows. “I haven't... haven't done... this. Yet.”

Mycroft hums and brings his lips close to Sherlock's ear. “There's a first time for everything.” He smirks devilishly. “Let me take care of you.”  
It works. Sherlock sighs softly, and the tension in his body drains away. Mycroft bends lower, presses kisses to Sherlock's throat, and when he flicks out his tongue Sherlock gasps. At that Mycroft moves up and presses their lips together.

Sherlock returns the kiss as best as he can, haltingly bringing his hands up to rest on Mycroft's waist, and move even higher to clutch at his shirt when Mycroft pushes his tongue past unresisting lips.

Then Mycroft slows them down, until he pulls away completely, whispering against Sherlock's lips. “Not so difficult now, is it?”

Sherlock opens his eyes, and shakes his head fractionally. His eyes are dark, and Mycroft can't seem to tear his gaze away from his swollen lips.

“Good,” he says. “Now go to my room and undress. Down the hall, the second room on the right.”

“I know where it is,” Sherlock snaps, and he goes, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Mycroft smiles to himself. _Mmmh, everything goes better than expected._

He takes his time fetching a glass of expensive whiskey, a bowl with hot water and a towel.

When he enters the room Sherlock is sitting on the bed, knees drawn up – and still wearing his pants. Mycroft silently puts down the bowl and the towel on the nightstand, sits down in the chair near the bed and sips his whiskey. “Didn't I tell you to undress?”

“I _am_ undressed.” There's a flicker of uncertainty, maybe even of fear in Sherlock's eyes, and he squirms a bit.

“Yes, but not completely. And I wanted you to undress, not undress-to-a-certain-degree. We'll try again, shall we? Undress, please.”

And, oh wonder, Sherlock obeys. He unfolds his long legs, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushes them down after only a moment's hesitation. He immediately draws his knees up again and wraps his arms tightly around them.

Mycroft tuts and stands, laying a hand upon Sherlock's knee. “I won't have any of that, understood?” Again he tries to be gentle, and he whispers into Sherlock's ear, “And you are such a pretty thing, you needn't cover up like that.”

Sherlock's eyes widen for a moment, before he rolls his eyes and stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Mycroft returns to sit in the chair and empties his glass, before saying, almost as to himself, “Now, where do we start? Ah, I know. Sherlock, touch yourself.” Apparently the sound of his voice alone sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine. Or maybe it's the combination of the words and his voice...

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to protest, but then closes it again, and one hand drops down next to him on the covers; the other one drops into his lap. He curls it around himself, already half-hard, and starts to stroke slowly.

But he's just stroking, and Mycroft isn't satisfied with that. “Don't hold back, I want to learn how you like to be touched.”

At that Sherlock shudders a bit and lets his head drop back against the headboard, and he closes his eyes. His grip tightens a bit, and he groans, running his thumb over the glans at each upstroke. As soon as his movements get faster Mycroft stops him. “That's enough for now. Hands at your sides, and slide a bit lower so you can lie down.”

Sherlock complies, cock standing up obscenely. Mycroft wets his lips and rises to take the lube out of the nightstand drawer.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You really want to fuck me, then.” It's not a question.

“Of course.” A pillow is shoved under Sherlock's hips. “Spread your legs.” It's only a murmur, and Sherlock blushes at the vulgarity but obeys readily enough.

Mycroft strokes a thumb over Sherlock's cheek, and kisses him again. And Sherlock relaxes, but as soon as he lifts his hands to pull Mycroft closer he straightens up again.

“No hands, I said.” He starts undressing himself.

Sherlock's gaze drops to Mycroft's cock, nestled in dark curls and almost completely flaccid.

“You're not aroused,” he observes.

A smirk slowly spreads across Mycroft's face. “That's because I know that the best part of the evening is yet to come. That now was just an... amuse bouche, you understand.” Sherlock flushes bright red. “It's time for the entrée, don't you think?” He looks at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock just nods, and Mycroft notices with delight that his breathing has quickened.

“I need you to say it.”

“Yes. Please.” That last part is said with great reluctance.

Mycroft smiles triumphantly and settles down between Sherlock's legs, caressing his thighs. He pours lube on his fingers and reaches between Sherlock's legs, hand sliding down, lightly pressing at his entrance. “Relax, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods and deliberately slows his breathing, and Mycroft presses again, and then, oh, his finger slides in an inch. Sherlock gasps loudly.

“Everything alright?”

Sherlock nods again. “Of course. Keep going.”  
Mycroft searches his face for signs of discomfort, and when he finds none he moves again. He presses his finger deeper, and Sherlock groans.

Soon he can move easily in and out, and he adds a second finger while leaning forward to mouth along Sherlock's cock. Oh, and isn't that a pretty sight, Sherlock panting and fisting his hands in the duvet and screwing his eyes shut.

It'll take a while to stretch his virgin-Sherlock, so Mycroft allows himself to relish in his body's responses. There's a pleasant tugging in his abdomen, and the warmth radiating from Sherlock's body seems to kindle a gentle flame inside him. And, yes, he's aroused now, cock rubbing against the sheets beneath him, and he quickly has to shut down that part of his mind again to concentrate on the task... at hand.

When he scissors his fingers Sherlock groans, and he sounds so desperate, whispering, “Please, My.”

Mycroft ignores it, and adds a third finger. _God, he must feel so full. He_ _ **is**_ _a virgin, after all_ , he thinks, and his cock twitches at that thought.

He looks up, and what he sees almost steals his breath away. Sherlock's face is contorted in pleasure, brows furrowed, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, teeth digging into his lower lip. Mycroft withdraws his fingers and moves up. He wipes the tears away with his clean hand. “I didn't hurt you.”

Sherlock looks at him, still slightly panting. “No, of course not.” He sounds embarrassed. “Sorry. I don't know-”

“Shush. It's just your body's reaction to too much stimulation. You haven't done this before, after all, and I can imagine that it's quite overwhelming to be in your situation.” He presses a kiss to his lips.

A shudder runs through Sherlock's body, and he breathes in a huge breath. “Please, Mycroft, please-” his voice breaks. “I- I need to be... filled again.” He goes red, and Mycroft decides that he rather likes that look on him.

And if he hadn't been aroused from watching Sherlock's reactions to his earlier attentions he'd be fully hard now. To hear such words come out of his baby brother's mouth was quite a shock, but a rather pleasant one.

And then he can't wait any longer. He lubes up his cock and pulls one of Sherlock's legs up and puts it over his shoulder. He turns his head and presses a kiss to Sherlock's thigh, before slowly pushing inside. Sherlock cries out, and Mycroft hopes it's in pleasure because right in that moment he's too far gone to stop. But so far Sherlock isn't complaining, and so he pulls out completely and pushes back in, and it's so delicious to feel Sherlock's body opening up for him that he has to lean forward and kiss Sherlock. In the process Sherlock's leg slides from his shoulder and he wraps both his legs around Mycroft's waist. His heels dig into the back of Mycroft's thighs and so Mycroft starts thrusting in earnest, still not very fast but oh so persistent. And Sherlock lets out the most wonderful noises, gasps and moans and occasionally cries when Mycroft angles a thrust particularly well.

And when Mycroft begins thrusting faster Sherlock gasps loudly and slings his arms around Mycroft's neck, pulling him down to kiss him, eyes shut tight.

“Oh please, Mycroft, I- I need-”

And Mycroft knows what he needs, kisses him to interrupt his pleas and thrusts a few times more before giving in, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's cock. He strokes him in just the way he'd been shown before, only faster, and it doesn't take long until Sherlock's body arches up and he's spasming around Mycroft's cock, pulsing in his hand. Mycroft strokes him through his orgasm and stops thrusting until Sherlock's come down again.

He sighs and stretches, hands over his head, and says, “Go on, then,” and Mycroft can't resist and starts pounding into Sherlock, and he still has his hands right over his head so he holds them there, pins him down. He comes to the sight of Sherlock spread out beneath him, unable to leave, eyes full of trust.

When the waves of pleasure have passed he slides out, reaching for the towel to clean them up. Sherlock is still open, come trickling out of his hole, and Mycroft wipes himself down quickly before turning to Sherlock, cleaning him with great care.

Sherlock just stares at him in wonder, not saying a word.

When Mycroft is finished he lies down next to Sherlock and kisses him deeply. Sherlock looks up at him as if he wants to say something, but Mycroft just presses him to his chest. “Go to sleep, Sherlock,” he murmurs.

So Sherlock does.


End file.
